Triumph and Sweat
by Tricky'Nix
Summary: Oneshot. "I want to be able to tell you that, it's love. But the truth is; to stand there with your arch-enemy's cum dripping down my leg whilst you thought I was madly in love with you, gave me a tiny stab of triumph." Hell hath no fury like a woman under-estimated.


I know- I suck, but this is just something to get me out of my writers block rut. I also know that I should be working on my ongoing story but what can I say? I'm an angst-whore.

* * *

The first time that it happened, it was fast and rough up against the wall inside a storage cupboard, the façade of his carefully constructed persona crumbling in an eager, messy victory. She could taste the triumph on his tongue as his fingers dug into her thighs and his sweat rolled down her neck. The corner of her mouth fought to contain the smirk that threatened to curl across her face because she was the orchestrator of this plot line.

He thought winning this battle would give him the war; she thought this battle would give her vindication. In the end, only one of them was right.

* * *

The second time it happened, she had to fight to feign fear and rejection in front of Detective Lestrade whilst simultaneously tingling with sexual gratification.

"Ar-Are you sure he won't come after me?" She feels a little giddy when the inspector mistakenly interprets the catch in her voice and the stain in her cheeks as trepidation. He offers comforting words and touches her shoulder, suggesting a protection detail that she nobly refuses. She makes sure to ask after John and Sherlock as if she didn't already know they were fine, as if her crush on the tall, consulting detective still infected her thoughts.

When she was finally left alone to stagger back to her bedroom in anticipation of another round, she was confronted with dark eyes glittering thoughtfully in her direction. Jim Moriarty lounged against her door frame pensively, his eyes crinkling slightly in conjunction with the low, tickling chuckle that scratched its way out of his throat.

"This never was my victory was it Molly?"

She doesn't answer him because she still doesn't know why she's in this.

It isn't until later, when she's making sure that every inch of his burning skin is pressed against hers and she's goading him to hold tighter, bite deeper, move faster; that she realises that this _is_ her victory, and she's in this for her own pleasure for once.

* * *

The thirteenth time it happens, he's truly reconciled to the fact that he misjudged her and he swings between punishing her for tricking him, and rewarding her being a little less spineless than he thought.

He attempts to convince her that really, deep _deep_ down, this is his victory secretly, but a twist of her hips and a shout of her laughter remind him otherwise. A fleeting thought that is soon wiped away with her mouth flickers behind his eyes. She knows that he is wondering who she'll ruin first – Jim Moriarty or Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

The twenty-third time it happens, Sherlock is out of the area and she has to be very persuasive to convince Jim that sneaking into 221b to have sex is just a little bit _too_ obsessive.

The twenty-sixth time it happens, it's a slow comfortable screw that leaves her making her way out of Barts to shower the smell of crime and sin off her skin in her lunch hour, but the Consulting Detective himself sweeps in and tells her that he has monopolised her time. She goes with him demurely and he doesn't notice her wonky clothes or the glazed sheen behind her eyes. She fights down a giggle.

The twenty-seventh time doesn't actually happen. She tells him that she's bored with the arrangement and breezes out of the hotel suite with a triumphant grin on her face. Sherlock's desperate, and if she can send Jim up to roof bored, it'll even the playing field. She still isn't sure who she's rooting for. She can't decide which player she hates more.

* * *

The twenty-seventh time it actually _does_ happen, it's the explosive climax she realises she was gunning for the whole time.

She knew he was following her all the way to the hotel suite and she deliberately lingered so that Jim left before her. This time; it had been languorously slow, speed and tempo never changing so that by the time her body gave into the crushing roll of his hips, she was so sensitive her vision blurred and the dizziness made her head spin.

He chuckled as he finished dressing and leaned over her splayed body, tangled in the sheets, and crushed his mouth to hers.

"Goodbye Molly Hooper" he whispers against lips, "I'll let you end this today." She smiles beneath him and turns her head to allow his tongue to graze her pulse one more time, although she knows it's not the last time. He'll be back when the victory she's about to win is far enough in the past to have lost the sated feeling it brings now.

His body leaves hers, so she flings an arm over her eyes to bask in the heady finality of this moment.

"I'm glad you didn't really die Jim." She calls in farewell.

The door clicks but he pauses before he steps over the threshold.

"Do give my love." He has to have the last word.

Her lips quirk up into the smile that has been present on her face very often lately.

She takes her time getting dressed so that when she does finally make it out of the hotel, he's pacing openly on the pavement.

He stops in his tracks when he sees her and she can feel his every watchful eye taking in her mussed hair and bright eyes, the way her clothing hangs off her frame as though it all got stretched the last time it was ripped from her frame.

His eyes are blazing and he shakes her by the shoulders and he rants loudly at her, full of righteous indignation.

"him? You've been sleeping with JIM MORIATY? How could you know he was alive and keep it to yourself? Do you know what he's done? What he's plan-"

She laughs and he cuts himself off, letting go of her in disbelief. She takes the opportunity to step into his personal space and talk back.

Her voice is scratchy from moaning and the flinch he gives when the sound of her voice juxtaposes his clear, loud shout tells her that he notices.

"I want to be able to tell you that, it's love." She grins when his eyes widen at the way her words flow so smoothly together, not a stutter or tremble in hearing. "I wish I could tell you, Sherlock Holmes, that I couldn't help myself, that he crawled under my skin or that I ache for him constantly."

The white tips of her teeth chew on her lip for a second as he begins to look uncomfortable with the salacious tone that is slithering into her words. She relishes the nervous way his hands are curling into fists.

"I really want to be able to tell you that he's redeemable, that he isn't as bad as you think, that he just needs some love-" She gasps out a laugh at the ridiculousness of her own sentence.

"So why don't you?" He doesn't know why she's laughing, the harshness of his voice is testament to his confusion as to how such a tiny woman is thwarting him.

"I want to." She pauses to lick her lips as if she can taste his confusion in the air. "But the truth is; to stand there with your arch-enemy's cum dripping down my leg whilst you thought I was madly in love with you, gave me a tiny stab of triumph."

She sobers up for a second as the gravity of the situation slides into place.

"You spoke to me like I was stupid, you sent me on errands like you would send a grad student out to pick up your dry cleaning, and you had no qualms about telling me I counted so that I would serve your agenda."

"So this was revenge?" He's trying to apply a concept to her behaviour but the detective can't quite think straight when things don't go as he anticipated.

"No honey." His eyes widen anew at her patronising endearment. "This was just my way of showing you that I'm not quite as useless as you thought. It's nice to knock someone down a peg or two."

She chuckles at his bewilderment and steps further into his space, curling her fingers into a fist around his scarf, holding him still as she reaches up to press a lipstick mark in the shape of her lips onto his cheekbone.

"Jim Moriarty send his love."

* * *

Some years later, Molly Hooper bends her pliant body around the man that lies beside her. She purrs as he drifts his hand across the skin on the back of her thigh.

"So what did you do?" He murmurs in her ear, his breathe ruffling her damp hair across her sticky skin. "After you walked away I mean."

She smiles lazily and props her head up on her hand.

"Wouldn't you like to know".

* * *

You can choose who is in her bed at the end. I couldn't decide.

Nixon. x


End file.
